


Make You Lose Control

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Movie: Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Reylo - Freeform, awkward virgins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 22:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Two days after the Battle of Crait, the bond opens again.





	Make You Lose Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dietplainlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/gifts).



> Inspired by the prompt: "Force bond masturbation".

Two days after Crait, Rey is alone. The Falcon is spinning through space. Rose is guiding the porgs towards non-lethal wiring to make their nests in. Finn is tripping over them, unnerved by their wide eyes. The Resistance heaves in the tight space of the ship. General Organa and Commander Dameron comm their allies and beg again, not for alliance this time, but simply shelter.

Rey slips into her quarters and locks the door. She finally allows herself to feel what she’s been ignoring since she was a girl.

Her parents are dead.

And she wasn’t their last thought. Their last thought probably wasn’t even one another. They couldn’t even give her that. Maybe that would’ve been an easier truth to swallow; that they’d loved each other. She could’ve reasoned with herself that there simply wasn’t room for a child in a love as all-consuming as theirs.

But they were just like every drunk on Jakku. They just clung to stolen whiskey and grasped tight of each other because it was like everything on Jakku. It was routine. Habit. Drinking was a habit. Scavenging was a habit.

Her parents aren’t on a ship, flying through hyperspace to save her. That was one of many fantasies she had about them. That they’d been harshly separated by fate, or some great evil, yet to be found out. That they didn’t even know of her, and when they would know of her, again, they would sell what they could, hire, buy, steal even, the first ship they could find and track her through the stars to carry her away from the sands.

Her parents are dead.

But everything else is so  _alive_. The men and women of the Resistance, of whom are left, chatter so animatedly, with gestures and expressions ever changing. It rattles inside her head, their faint Force signatures that they themselves can’t feel, buzzing with a passion for the galaxy. A passion that could’ve been squashed by the battle of Crait, but that she restored by the simple act of—lifting rocks.

Her quarters in the Millenium Falcon feel cold. She grabs the blanket off of her bunk and wraps it around her shoulders.

She stares at the door, willing someone to come inside and find her.

Then the bond opens. As easy as flicking a switch.

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren sits in front of her. He has bags under his eyes. His hands are bare. The first few buttons of his black tunic are undone. He was preparing to change, or perhaps preparing to sleep.

It seems odd to think that Kylo Ren sleeps.

“Is this how you’re destined to find me?” she asks dully, shifting position on the bunk. Something stirs inside her, low in the pit of her stomach the longer her eyes rest on the three undone buttons.

“I don’t know. I can’t…” He lets the words die. Control it. Whenever they meet seems to be the will of the Force. How stupid of her, to believe for a moment, that Snoke, so easily killable, could forge a bond that spans light years upon light years.

Kylo Ren runs his hands over his face. She feels, rather than hears his voice.

_Are you okay?_ She lifts her head. That’s the question he wants to ask.

A thousand things come to her mind. Each one more barbed than the last. She’s taken back to the hut. A fireglow, and a connection she didn’t want. It had caught her, the Force, on the raw, when she was nothing more than jagged edges of nerves, her fingers flexing, bites of her nails in the flesh of her palms. Endless versions of her, of what she could be.

She’d seen him opposite her, confused as she as to why they’d been thrown together, and she wanted to curse at him in the worst Huttese she could think of. That’s all Kylo Ren deserved.

And she’d given him the truth instead.

She gives him the truth now. There's no-one else who'll understand.

“They didn’t want me.”

Tears fall hot and fast down her cheek, but it’s not the ugly sobs of a child. It’s just fact. The tears against her skin, which taste salty as they pass at the corner of her mouth to drip off her jaw.

When did her mother decide she didn’t want her? Was it when she was just a thought, growing inside her stomach? Or perhaps her mother was happy, looked forward to having a child, to care for and love. It was easier to believe the former. That her mother was selfish. Only birthed a baby into the world because she knew the value of a child on Jakku. How they could get into the smaller crawl spaces, pick gems up that older scavengers could not.

If her mother loved her, at some point—

She shakes her head. That’s not a grief she’s prepared to face. Not yet. 

Kylo Ren’s eyes flit over her face, landing on her lips. 

His expressions are minute, brief flickers like a bad signal on a comm. The corner of his mouth twitches up, his eyes shifting down her body. She doesn’t call him out on it. The feeling in the pit of her stomach simply stirs again; strengthening.

Just as she feels his question, she feels more than sees how he moves. She hears the whisper of his clothing as he edges towards her. He drops to a crouch in front of her.

He doesn’t touch her. That, more than anything, makes her feel lonely.

So she touches him.

With her forefinger, she traces the line of his scar. She's curious if it hurts still. He holds a shiver in, his eyes still on her face, still on her lips. She strokes down, across his face to draw the line of his bottom lip. She feels his jawline.

He tenses then. Not with nerves, or hesitation. His want for her, his desire for  _her_ , rolls off of him in waves. It stuns her. How like Ben Solo he looks. 

Perhaps this is why she calls him Kylo Ren.

If she calls him Ben, knows him fully as Ben, then she’ll have to face up to the fact that she loves him, the enemy of the side she chose.

They can control this bond, this connection. They always have been able to. The Force is all life, and there is nothing in the galaxy more alive than need.

Their lips hover close now, close enough to hurt one another. 

And so they do, by touching their lips together. A soft, careful brush. He nuzzles her cheek with the tip of his nose, his breath warm on her skin. She tilts her head and kisses him again. Languid, even though every feeling is a rush, coming at her again and again.

Coming at us both, she thinks as she feels him smile. She pulls back, wanting to see the sight as well as feel it. It’s like she expected. It’s Ben Solo, his smile. Every Ben Solo that might’ve been possible. The son of a princess and a general, maybe a senator himself. The son of smuggler Han Solo, following in his father’s footsteps.

Heat fills her belly, covers her skin; she kisses him again. Ben, for he is Ben, sighs into her mouth, sinking her fingers into her hair.

It’s an exchange of mouths, an interlinking of fingers and she feels his hand ghosting over hers, asking her things that fill her with desire and make her blush, her head swim. 

“Touch yourself,” he says, a question asked like a command. Her breath hitches as her head swims again. She needs this. Just… distraction, him. She needs them both.

She slides off her clothes in the space of her bunk, lying before him naked. In the connection, he stands over her, watching her. His eyes blaze, glittering like the stars outside the Falcon’s hull. She suddenly remembers where she is, but rather than killing her mood, it spurs her on.

Her mouth goes dry as she slides her hands over her body, caressing her breasts, pinching her nipples between finger and thumb, biting down a sigh with her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

_Open your legs_ , he whispers through the Force.

“I’ve touched myself before,” she murmurs, a reflex, her defences still in place when she’s willfully falling apart. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.

She parts her legs anyway and draws her fingers against her hot centre, so wet already. So wet and aching. She imagines what it’d be like to have his cock inside her. But not yet.

She locks her eyes onto his, briefly glancing down to find that his cock is in his hand. The sight of him, getting off on the idea of her getting off, spurs her on. She sinks one finger into herself to the first knuckle. He licks salty sweat off his lip, dark hair tangling.

Her hair tangles too, as she writhes on the sheets of her bunk and arches her back, adding a second finger. Filling herself up. Part of her pretends it’s him, that it’s some nebulous point in some other galaxy.

She could feel the pain that it’s not now, it’s not this universe, that they are still light years away when she wants him so badly here—but she squashes that by ghosting her fingers over her swollen clit and yelping, gasping, edging closer towards release.

He’s near the edge now too, and it is in silence that they work together, urging one another on with their grunts, groans, muttered pleas. 

His come spatters on her stomach as she bites her scream into her forearm. 

Recovering, she throws her arm over her eyes. His gloved hand smooths over her stomach, smearing his release into her skin. She smells of him now. Her body trembles underneath his touch.

Part of her wants to curl into it, and pull him closer to the bunk and fall asleep to his heartbeat.

The bond closes. Everything is all at once too cold.

* * *

Across the galaxy, Ben Solo gasps in the aftermath, sitting on his bed. His glove smells of her and him, smeared together. His mind goes dizzy for a moment. Tugging it off, he gathers his composure, tugging his breaths back to a normal pace. Lazily, in the midst of the new calm, he runs two of his fingers over his scar. His touch sparks the memory of her touch.

Jedi Killer, they call him in whispers. 

The Jedi Killer, in love with a Jedi. 

He was never destined to be Vader's heir. Among of all the confusion, that rings hideously, terrifyingly, beautifully clear.


End file.
